


unfinished business

by Pence



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Jaskier, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ghosts, Ghouls, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Potentially Evil Jaskier, Regret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pence/pseuds/Pence
Summary: “Witcher. I found you.”It’s faint as a whisper. The brushing of lips against the Witcher’s ear. Reverent."Jaskier?” Geralt whispers, echoing the softness of the bard’s voice. But darkness lay behind him and his Witcher eyes reveal only nature living behind him. Even the leaves at his feet remain undisturbed; no footprints in the damp mud leading towards or away.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 56
Kudos: 425





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I did not play the games. I'm working my way through the first book slowly. 
> 
> This should be a three-parter :D

The first time he hears it, Geralt is collecting firewood. His leathers cling to his skin and his boots squelch with every step through the brush. The rain had been unkind through the day’s travels, and even Roach had looked pitiful by the time they’d stopped to set camp.

Locating dry sticks and kindling after a storm was always tricky, but after a good twenty minutes of wandering, he’s made good headway. About to turn back to where he left Roach with his packs, Geralt freezes as a scent carries past him.

Linen. Mead. Gooseberries.

The voice that follows startles him; the bundle falls from his arms as he turns.

_“Witcher. I found you.”_

It’s faint as a whisper. The brushing of lips against the Witcher’s ear. _Reverent_.

“Jaskier?” Geralt whispers, echoing the softness of the bard’s voice. But only darkness lay behind him and his Witcher eyes reveal only nature living behind him. Even the leaves at his feet remain undisturbed; no footprints in the damp mud leading towards or away.

He is alone.

\-----

The second arrives during one of his rare stays in an inn. They are rare luxuries he allows himself, especially traveling alone and unloved. But given the amount of coin in his purse from a recent, lucrative hunt and the sickly remains of the slain ghoul beneath his nails, he submits.

If not for him, Roach deserved a bit of proper pampering for the night within the Inn’s stables.

Belly full, bathed, and warmed by the half-decent swill the Inn provided, Geralt was quick to chase slumber the moment he’d dropped onto his bed. His dreams, as of late, had been filled with wide, blue eyes and colored silk. They were both haunting and pleasant reveries from the solitude that had become his every day.

Regret lived with him in his wakefulness, often at the quietest parts of his journey. Roach was not much for conversation as a travel companion, and those many people whose villages he passed through were more likely to hurl insults or cower behind their tankards.

Occasionally, his evening might be filled with music from one of the many bards traveling through the kingdoms in search of fame. The first strum of a lute would always pull his heard into his stomach, but it was never _his_ bard.

At least in these dreams, nightmares, memories, Geralt could pretend that he wasn’t entirely as alone as he felt. That those blue eyes would always be two steps behind Roach’s trot, continually filling the silence with sound.

Sound is what wakes him in the middle of the night, long after the fire beneath the hearth died into glowing embers. The inn slumbers around him; the usual chatter in the market outside of the Inn silent, aside from the occasional gust of wind.

There is no danger here and Geralt allows his eyes to fall shut as he wills the short crackles from the fireplace to lull him back to sleep. And then he hears it. Hears _him_.

“Jaskier.” The thick furs previously covering him pool to Geralt’s’ lap as he sits up, eyes straining in the darkness of the room and towards the door. He can hear the strum of Jaskier’s lute and the lovely lilt of his voice coming from the distant tavern below. The floorboards muddle the song itself, but Geralt would know the bard’s playing anywhere.

Pulling a shirt over his head, Geralt crosses the small room in two great strides before throwing open the door. The music grows louder the closer he gets to the stairs and, with it, Jaskier’s more distinct voice.

_Why this sad long face_

_My old good friend_

_We will meet once again_

_In this life or in hell_

Geralt is not proud at the hammering stomps of his feet as he races down the staircase, hand braced to the wall to keep from falling. No doubt, he has woken many sleeping travelers or disturbed the Jaskier’s melody, but he cannot find it within him to care. Whether haunted by dreams or the ghostly voice in the woods, the bard has been on his mind as of late—and, with it, every regretful feeling for their terrible parting.

It seems Jaskier cares little for the loud booming of his descent, continuing to strum and sing.

_Maybe I’ll not return_

_Maybe I’ll fall_

_Bring my body on the shield_

_Tell them all I choose to die then yield_

Something awful yanks in Geralt’s gut—something foreboding and dreadfully sad. Making it to the main floor and tavern, Jaskier’s name is on the tip of the Witcher’s tongue when a heavy silence swallows all sound. Geralt stills nearest the bar, searching the shadows of the room for the bard.

The strange feeling in his gut spreads through his body, prickling up his arms like a rogue chill. But there is no evil magic or danger here, or so says the amulet around his neck. Only the creaks of an old tavern and the wind singing against the window panels.

\-----

The Drowner’s scream is cut short as Geralt’s blade severs its head from its shoulders, body splashing into the shallows of the river. A grunt leaves his throat as he plunges his hands beneath the water to retrieve the head.

It was a simple, pointless contract. Drowners, while dangerous pests to those unable to defend themselves, were easy enough to dispose of. However, one Drowner lurking the waters usually meant two. And even cutting through the entire crop, the smell of their blood traveling down the river would simply compel others to swim up, following the scent.

But gold was gold, and Geralt sorely needs to fatten his purse if he is to begin the journey to Kaer Morhen. It has been nearly a year since he had delivered Ciri into the care of Vesemir. It was the safest route to take in ensuring Ciri’s safety from Nilfgaard scouts, and a solution to the untrained power that thrums through the child.

She had not been pleased when he’d parted ways, but was sated by his promise to return in a year. Every year. Geralt’s place was not in Kaer Morhen, despite the unwanted duties that had fallen to him by his Child of Surprise. His place was no place, and he’d long accepted that lot.

As anticipated, loud splashing sounds behind Geralt and so too arrives the piercing scream of a second Drowner. Sword in one hand and the gaping head in his other, Geralt spun as quickly as the river would allow and sliced through the air. The Drowner was slain as quickly as the first as it met the end of his blade, falling silent with one final splash.

“No, that’s not right.”

Geralt nearly drops his sword as he jerks his gaze up to the adjacent shore, eyes widening. Jaskier paces the water’s edge, staring at the murky blood that traveled away from the submerged Drowner. His thumb is held between his teeth as he kneads it. His other hand fists fitfully into the yellow silk on his adjacent arm. “I don’t remember water. _No, no_. Yes, there was no water.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls, stepping forward as quickly as he could with the river swallowing his calves.

With a shake of his head and a resolute sigh, Jaskier turns and meanders away into the treelines. He continues to mumble to himself. “Perhaps a cliff. Or the end of a blade. I would not be surprised.”

“ _Dammit_ Jaskier!” Geralt’s snarls, dropping the Drowner head entirely to rush as quickly through the river as possible. Leaping up onto the shore, Geralt cares little for the squelching of his boot as he gives chase to the bard. “Stop!”

But despite the sparse clearing of trees, Jaskier has once again disappeared entirely. Geralt searches and calls out for upwards of an hour before returning to the river, dejected and bardless. The Drowner’s bodies are long gone, carried away to other waters.

He cannot deliver on his contract. He is only paid half.

\-----

It when he isn’t searching that Jaskier seeks him out.

The fire continues to crackle well into the night, urging shadows to dance against the trees surrounding his camp. Roach sleeps soundly at the camp’s edge, letting out soft, undisturbed huffs as she dreams. Geralt’s lids are heavy as he dozes, unable to find sleep as easily has his overworked horse.

It had been a fortnight since his peculiar crossing with Jaskier, yet no matter the number of villages he passed through, no news came of the Witcher’s bard.

The closest to news he’d received came from a barmaid that had refilled his tankard in the last village. “Ay. I remember that bard. Sang about the White Wolf, tho’ he had… choice things to say. Quite funny, that lad. Hasn’t been around for years, I’d say.”

Geralt sighs, pulling the furs on his bedroll further up his shoulder. Years for the barmaid, a decade for him. If he hadn’t seen the fool muttering to himself at the river, he would think Jaskier had traveled off the edge of the world.

Willing his thoughts on bard from his mind, Geralt forces his eyes shut and attempts to stabilize his breathing. Force himself into a trance-like slumber as he’d done so many times before.

And he was close to that precipice, incredibly close—until a rock is tossed at his back. Pushing up abruptly, Geralt turns to grab the sword at his side and ducks his head as another rock sails towards his head. 

His hand stills on the hilt.

“You think me a burden?” Jaskier snarls from the other side of the fire, eyes burning with anger as he waves an un-thrown rock in the air. “You brought every misfortune upon yourself, Witcher! The genies, the Child Surprise, _Yennefer_. Do not dare heap the blame upon me!”

Geralt ignores the next rock that hits his chest and pushes himself to his feet, uncaring as the bedroll unfurls beneath him. “You’re here,” He breathes, taking a step towards the bard. Jaskier mirrors his step, keeping the fire between them.

“I admit,” Jaskier continues, stooping to pick up a stick in place of another rock, arming himself like a child with a training sword. “I had much to do in _getting_ you into the situations but you— _you bullheaded, cruel, crooked-nose lunatic—_ **_you_** are the one who flirted with destiny and came out fucked! “

“Jaskier,” Geralt huffs, rolling his eyes as once more Jaskier mirrors his steps. “Calm down.”

“ _Calm down?!_ ” Jaskier snarls, eyes wide and mad as he hurls the stick over the fire. It does little as it knocks into Geralt’s shoulder. “Because I’m the one undeserving of a tantrum! Fuck me, Geralt of Rivia! How foolish, how infantile I must appear. Calm down, he says after casting away a friend on a _fucking_ mountain, abandoning him with dwarves. Oh, I’m mistaken. We were never friends, were we?”

With a sigh and a hop over the dwindling fire, Geralt plants himself in front of the bard, ending this chase. Jaskier glares up at him, shoulders squared and panting as he drowns in his anger. “You got your blessing, Witcher,” Jaskier whispers, venom dripping from his tone.

Reaching up, Geralt opens his mouth to say something, anything to quell the storm brewing in Jaskier’s eyes. Instead, his touch passes through the bard's shoulders, falling only through the chill of death.

Geralt’s eyes widen as his hand falls to his side. “No.”

Jaskier smiles. “I’m off your hands for good,” he laughs airily, planting his hands on his hips.

“How?” Geralt asks softly as he stares at the grinning bard. He swallows the lump in his throat. “How did y-?”

Jaskier shrugs. “I cannot recall,” he admits, before taking a step forward to stare up into the Witcher’s face. “But _you’re_ going to help me find out.”


	2. Chapter 2

“How did you die, Jaskier?”

Geralt hadn’t been able to sleep, and his shoulders are heavy with exhaustion. The fear, and paranoia of Jaskier disappearing while he slept had kept his mind from calming through the night. But Jaskier is still here, sitting across the firepit as Geralt roasts his breakfast. With the sun above their heads, it is easier to tell that Jaskier lacks in humanity. There is a shimmer covering him, like gentle ripples upon a still pond, that crosses across his being. As if his manifestation is a struggle to maintain. Geralt is afraid to turn his back.

Jaskier stays silent, arms resting upon his knees as he continues to watch the fish roasting above the fire. Geralt sits across from him, fiddling with a dagger as he watches the ghost. It takes calling Jaskier’s name two more times before the bard meets his eye.

“You found your Child Surprise?” Jaskier asks, nails scraping lightly into his knees. At Geralt’s nod, Jaskier smiles and his gaze drops back to the fish. “I’m glad. I assume she is safe, yes?”

“She is,” Geralt confirms, reaching forward to turn the skewer at the side of the fire. The fish’s skin sizzles, peeling under the flame. “She is in Kaer Morhen. That’s where I am heading.”

“Nilfgaard is still searching for her,” Jaskier mutters, dropping his hands from his knees to lean on his arms. “I’ve been approached by scouts asking after you. I had to stop singing of our—of  _ your _ quests years ago. I’m fairly certain I was being followed for some time.”

“Assassination?” Geralt unhelpfully supplies, earning a small huff of laughter from Jaskier.

“I doubt it was Nilfgaard,” Jaskier shrugs before climbing to his feet. He dusts the seat of his pants with his palms, although Geralt doubts it’s necessary, given the bard’s incorporeal state. “They stopped following me after a while. Probably moved on to other targets when our paths failed to cross.”

“You recall so much, yet you cannot remember the dagger in your back?” Geralt huffs, reaching forward to pluck the skewer from the ground as the fish’s skin began to char too much.

Jaskier only smiles, watching as Geralt bites into the still scorching fish, bones and all. “I’m lucky,” he shrugs, turning his head to cast his gaze out into the surrounding woods. “It must have been a fast, painless affair.”

Geralt only grunts as he chews, watching as Jaskier steps away from the fire. “Don’t wander out of sight,” he warns, flinching as the bard’s image wavers briefly.

Jaskier does not respond. He starts humming softly to himself as he leaves the camp. Geralt watches him go, chewing idly on his breakfast. And between one blink and the next, Jaskier is gone.

\-----

Geralt is halfway to Kaer Morhen when he finds Jaskier again.

It took time to come to terms with Jaskier’s predicament, and Geralt can’t confidently say he’s used to the man’s spectral nature. What is strange, however, is the sudden feeling that he no longer traveled alone. Along isolated roads, he could swear he’s heard the sound of soft humming, or crunching footfalls. He could write it off as songbirds in the distance or the echo of Roach’s hooves, but it is far too familiar to be anything but Jaskier.

The bard sits upon a rock to the side of the path, his face turned toward the sun and eyes closed. Geralt slows Roach to a trot before stopping at Jaskier’s side.

“I can’t feel anything,” Jaskier admits mournfully, opening one eye to meet Geralt’s. “I cannot feel the stone beneath my thighs or the heat on my skin. I can bite through my tongue and feel nothing,  _ taste _ nothing, even as blood fills my mouth.”

“Where have you been?” Geralt asks, swinging his leg over the saddle to dismount. Roach’s ears twitch, but she only watches the Witcher. He wonders if she can see Jaskier, although he is doubtful.

“Everywhere. Nowhere,” Jaskier hums, laying back upon the stone and stretching his arms above his head. He does not react as Geralt takes a seat at his side, continuing to lounge under the afternoon sun. “Sometimes, I will close my eyes and find myself somewhere else entirely. I will look down and watch the tide lick my toes on the coast, only to look up and find the ruins of Cintra.”

“Have any luck in discovering how you died?” Geralt asks, reaching into his pocket to remove some jerky. Jaskier opens his eyes to watch Geralt eat, staring up at him with a pursed frown.

“I did not drown,” Jaskier mutters, watching as Geralt tore the dried venison in half with his teeth. “That is all I know.” 

Geralt grunts as Jaskier falls silent, continuing to chew as his thoughts wander. Roach grazes at the tall grasses adjacent to the rock, tail whipping lazily. Despite the morbid event that had forced their reunion, Geralt finds quiet delight being in Jaskier’s presence once more. Even if Jaskier is presently favoring silence, having another person at Geralt’s side is a comfort.

“Do you remember the last place you were while alive?” Geralt asks, glancing down to the quiet bard. Jaskier makes a thoughtful noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan as his eyes fall shut.

“Probably some town. Perhaps a tavern. Possibly the bed of someone’s daughter,” Jaskier sings, a smile growing on his face. Geralt is not amused and, given the widening of Jaskier’s smile, the bard can sense his frown. “You’re not one to ask stupid questions, Geralt. I don’t remember.”

“How can you not remember dying, Jaskier?” Geralt sighs, shaking his head as Jaskier opens his eyes to glare at him. “It doesn’t seem like something one can easily forget.”

“Piss off, Witcher,” Jaskier huffs, pushing himself up on his elbow. “Do not chastise me on what dying feels like while you fill your belly. I don’t even remember the last thing I ate or drank. Did I die with my gut warmed with ale and food? Did I die with my lute in my hand? Oh, my sweet lute.”

Shaking his head, Geralt turns back to his lunch as Jaskier mourns the loss of his prized instrument. Something warm flutters in Geralt’s gut as Jaskier complains, shifting the topic from his lute to bemoan the fact that he will never be able to perform again.

“The tales I could tell as a specter!” Jaskier cries, sitting up and hopping from the rock. He turns on his heel to stare at Geralt, planting his hands on his hips. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to sing for me, Witcher? I can teach you to play should we happen upon my lute—even if your fingers are the size of boiled sausages.”

Geralt snorts softly. “I refuse,” he mutters, pocketing the rest of his lunch to stand, as well. Roach looks up from her grazing, staring through Jaskier to her rider. “I think our time would prove more fruitful if we discovered how you met your end, Jaskier.”

“Damn you, Geralt,” Jaskier groans, but turns on his heel to walk towards the path. Roach does not acknowledge him as he passes a palm along her flank, fingers dipping unceremoniously through her. “I suppose you are right.” With a nod, Jaskier turns and starts down the path, not bothering to wait for Geralt to saddle up. 

Geralt frowns as he places a hand on Roach’s rump. “Jaskier. Kaer Morhen is in the opposite direction,” he calls.

Jaskier doesn’t stop or look back, only raising a hand to wave. “I can say without a doubt I died leagues away from your creepy castle! I’m heading for Vizima.”

Geralt sighs and pulls himself up onto Roach’s back. He is unsurprised to find Jaskier is gone by the time they turn towards the path ahead.

With a shake of his head and a gentle nudge to Roach’s sides, they set off in a trot back the way they had come.

\-----

Blood seeps from Geralt’s shoulder from a shallow knife wound, soaking into the cotton of his shirt. Adrenaline dulled the pain as his eyes focused only on the bandit laying at his feet. Rattling, wheezing gurgles fall from the bandit’s lips as he writhes on the ground, palm pressing into his throat. Blood seeps through his fingers, puddling beneath his neck on the ground.

Geralt hadn’t been actively looking for trouble, but he often found his defenses lowered in towns. While he is generally distrusted as a Witcher, rarely are villagers daring enough to try and accost him. Enter this fool who undoubtedly believed Geralt rich in coin and an easy mark.

With a shake of his head, Geralt removes a cloth from his pocket to clean his sword. He fails to hear the footsteps approaching from behind—but in later memory, he doubts there had been any at all.

“I don’t remember pain,” Jaskier hums, dropping to a crouch to watch the bandit’s movements grow sluggish. “I don’t remember blood either.”

“The townspeople don’t remember you,” Geralt mutters, sheathing his sword at his back. “You likely did not die here.”

Jaskier’s head bobs as he rests his arms on his knees, continuing to sit idle as he watches the dying man. As the bandit’s struggles fall into a final twitch and his face goes slack, his wide eyes briefly meet Jaskier’s. The bard smiles.

“I wonder who he was,” Jaskier ponders, hopping back to his feet before turning to Geralt. “I hope he has a family to take care of the body. Seems wrong, leaving him out here to get eaten by the dogs.”

“He was a cutthroat. It’s the least he deserves,” Geralt huffs, sheathing his sword. “He stabbed me in the shoulder.”

“No, he didn’t,” Jaskier said with a roll of his eyes, following at Geralt’s heel as the Witcher steps over the body. “It’s s a simple cut. And knowing you, Geralt, you’re heading to a tavern to drink your fill in ale rather than tend to the wound.”

Geralt only grunts, neither confirming nor denying that his destination is indeed the tavern. When Jaskier grows quiet, Geralt glances over his should to see the ghost is once again gone. Geralt’s quickly growing accustomed to Jaskier’s sudden comings and goings—but also finds that’s he’s not  _ completely _ content with the trick. Geralt stumbles as he comes to a halt, nearly crashing into (or through) the ghost suddenly in front of him.

Geralt frowns. “Jaskier.”

“If you find my body, will you build me a pyre?” Jaskier asks, tone uncomfortably serious despite the small smile on his face. His arms are crossed over his chest, fingers buried in his yellow sleeves. “A large one, if you will. I want my ashes to kiss the stars.”

Geralt’s frown deepens, having failed to consider actually finding Jaskier’s remains. Despite Jaskier’s strange hauntings, Geralt doesn’t enjoy acknowledging the reality of Jaskier’s death. To actually find the tangible, physical evidence…

“Of course,” Geralt promises, ignoring the churn of his stomach as Jaskier’s smile grows. “Assuming you don’t currently reside in the belly of a ghoul.”

Jaskier snickers as he moves to Geralt’s side, following him as he resumes his walk to the tavern. “Then burn the ghoul, too.”

\-----

Geralt has traveled through three small villages while heading towards Vizima before he finds any news of Jaskier’s presence.

“Ay, that bard stuck around this town for a few days,” the barman of the local inn confirms, topping off Geralt’s ale with a nervous smile. “Stayed maybe a month before he was chased out of town with his breeches around his knees.”

Brows rising, Geralt motions to the innkeeper to continue before taking a sip. “Been warming the bed of Lady Marjory, that bard. Lucky that her husband has a bad knee, else he might have been skewered in the streets.”

“So he escaped?” Geralt asks. The barkeep nods and Geralt grunts in acknowledgement.

“Even returned here to grab his things and clear his tab. Can’t tell you what happened after that.”

“Thank you,” Geralt mutters, pushing over a few spare coins before taking up his mug. Turning back towards the rest of the room, Geralt heads towards the furthest corner of the tavern and is unsurprised to find Jaskier already sitting there. He doesn’t look up at Geralt’s approach, staring mournfully instead towards the hearth.

“I thought brooding was my thing,” Geralt grunts as he drops into the bench at Jaskier’s side. 

Jaskier doesn’t reply.

Savoring the silence while he can, Geralt sips at his ale as he watches the room. He’s grown used to wandering eyes landing on him when he’s within villages, but he’s yet to be met with an unkind word here. While he’d never expressed it, Jaskier’s songs  _ were _ a blessing. As their popularity grew and they spread between cities, he’d been offered more jobs and kindness that he’d ever known. Or at least less outright anger.

Guilt still lingered in Geralt’s chest from the last cruel words he’d said to a then living Jaskier. He wonders if Jaskier might still be alive had Geralt had the fortitude to keep down his lashing tongue.

“Why me, Jaskier?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier stares ahead, trance-like. His fingers are curled into tight fists on his thighs as he watches the fire dancing from across the room. “Perhaps it’s what you deserve. Or what I deserve. The ultimate punishment from uncaring gods.” Sighing softly, Jaskier leans back and closed his eyes, letting his head touch the wall behind him. Geralt watches silently as Jaskier smiles sadly, before rolling his head to meet the Geralt’s gaze. “I think I might have loved you once.”

Something thick and acidic climbs Geralt’s throat as he watches Jaskier’s small smile. The ale in his stomach feels molten, burning as it weighs heavy in his gut. He’d known Jaskier had been attracted to him during their travels. Geralt’s sense of smell never failed him and Jaskier had always been an open book. Lust and happiness were common in the bard, especially after long, grueling adventure.

But never the bitter stench of fear, at least not directed at Geralt.

Aside from that day on the mountain.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt whispers. And he is—so,  _ so _ incredibly sorry for  _ everything _ .

Jaskier lets out a small laugh, turning away to stare once more towards the fire. “So am I.”

Geralt doesn’t ask for clarification. He doesn’t know if he can handle the truth.

\-----

Geralt comes to find that Jaskier’s emotions are volatile, far more so than when he was human.

When they had traveled before, Geralt is ashamed of the brash disinterest he had paid the bard. Geralt’s ire was usually met with smiles or exaggerated offense, but never appeared to sting.

Jaskier was everything Geralt was not: optimistic, colorful, charming.

But lately, when Jaskier would make his appearances, his usually bright face is painted in irritation and discontent. When Geralt can get him to talk beyond his mumbles and hums, Jaskier complains about the pieces of himself he is rapidly losing.

Lyrics to his own songs. The name of his youngest sibling. The name of the university he both studied at and occasionally taught in.

Today, Geralt finds Jaskier trailing behind Roach, staring into the farmer’s fields at their side. He’s been picking at the skin on his fingers since he appeared and kneading his bottom lip between his teeth. Geralt notices Jaskier’s eyes flickering to him on occasion, worry rolling off of him in waves.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier glances up to meet Geralt’s eye, but quickly ducks his head back to the road. “Leave me be, Geralt. I have a lot on my mind.”

“I can hear you thinking from up here,” Geralt huffs, pulling on Roach’s reigns to slow her into a casual trot at Jaskier’s side. “You’re going to scare away the wildlife and then what will I eat for dinner?”

“Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blavken, making jokes,” Jaskier sings dryly, dropping his arms to his sides as he glances back up to Geralt. “If I had doubted my death before, this truly is the moment where I accept it. Although, I will say I am unsurprised that your humor is absolutely wretched.”

Geralt snorts and turns his gaze back towards the road. “What’s bothering you, Jaskier?”

Jaskier breathes sharply through his nose and then sighs. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re already dead, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shoots a reproachful glare up to Geralt before turning a burning gaze back to the beaten dirt beneath his feet. “I mean… I think my soul, my very  _ essence _ is fading,” he mutters, struggling for words. “Time no longer makes sense to me and it’s an effort to recall where I am at any given moment. I see familiar faces and places, but I can’t put a name or history to them. I just... know that at one time or another, I could write songs about them.”

Geralt pulls Roach to a stop, frowning down at Jaskier as the ghost falls still a few steps ahead. “…Are you angry?”

“Of course, I’m angry,” Jaskier laughs, turning to glare up at Geralt. “I’m dead and terrified. Who wouldn’t be an—?“

“Have you thought about hurting anyone?” Geralt asks, voice softening in an attempt to appease the spirit. “Do you want to kill me?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen at the question, horror painting across his face. “N-no! Never! I-I just… Gods, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m a damn fool.”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier meets Geralt’s eyes. . 

“If you feel the desire to harm someone, anyone,” Geralt says, “I want you to find me immediately. Spirits trapped on the human plane can become some of the most fearsome monsters. Wraiths.”

Jaskier’s horror fades as he listens, lips pressing into a thin line. “…If I do come to you when violence takes me... Will you cut me down?”

Geralt doesn’t reply, earning a short laugh from Jaskier as he turns back to the road. “Aim true, then. I’d rather not add more scars to your pretty face.”

Geralt only grunts, spurring Roach once more into a trot. He makes no mention of the amulet glowing against his chest, or the terrible fear coursing ice through his veins.

\----

It gets worse the closer they get to Vizima.

The glow of his amulet alerts him to every one of Jaskier’s appearances. Jaskier’s mood grows gloomier by the day, and his willingness to talk diminishes. There are even times when Jaskier stares at Geralt’s face as if he’s figuring out a puzzle. As if he is slowly forgetting who the Witcher himself is.

Geralt is not one known to offer gentle comforts or reassurances, but when Jaskier is willing to ask after a gap in his memory, Geralt fills it. “It was a djinn.”

“Like a genie?”

“Mm.”

The moment that spurs Geralt to ride faster is when Jaskier’s last appearance stirs the grass along the path. Tears streak down his cheeks and his breath comes out in pained huffs as he swallows down his sobs. “I forgot, Witcher!” he wails, rattling the leaves of a nearby tree.

Geralt’s heart is in his throat as he dismounts from Roach, hand closing instinctively around the hilt of his sword. His amulet burns hot against his chest, surging with heat as Jaskier let out a wet sob. “What did you forget?”

“Her name!” Jaskier sobs, reaching up to grab at his head. His fingers bury themselves in his dark locks, tugging in distress. Geralt would give anything to touch him—to pull his hands away from his head and cradle it to his shoulder. But all he can do is stand there and watch as his Witcher senses scream danger.

“Who?” Geralt asks gently, taking a step forward as Jaskier quiets into moaning apologies. “Jaskier, look at me.”

A bubbling sob shakes Jaskier’s shoulders as he looks up, eyes wide and rimmed with red. “Please, Geralt,” he hisses through gritted teeth, tears staining dark patches into the bright yellow of his sleeves. “I’m s-sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Let me help you,” Geralt murmurs, stepping closer to the ghost. His amulet slowly cools at his chest and the winds whipping through the grass calm. “Who did you forget?”

Sniffling, Jaskier drops his hands to rub at his face. “Horse. Y-your horse.”

Geralt lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in his chest, uncurling his fingers from the hilt of his sword. “…Roach.”

Jaskier lets his hands fall to his sides, staring up at Geralt with a knit brow. His breathing still comes in short, painful huffs, but the painful clench of his face smooths out. Searching Geralt’s face, Jaskier is silent for a few, long seconds before he smiles. “That’s right… Yes, Roach,” he murmurs. “T-thank you, Witcher.”

As Jaskier turns to walk away, he’s stopped with a single word, “Geralt.”

Glancing back, Jaskier frowns up at Geralt, confusion evident in his expression. Geralt clears his throat. “Call me Geralt from this point on. Not Witcher. Don’t forget me.”

Shame colors Jaskier’s cheeks, but he nods. “You aren’t easily forgettable, Geralt,” he mutters before walking away and disappearing into the treelines.

The breeze rustles Geralt’s hair as he makes his way back to Roach. He pretends he didn’t hear the  _ “Believe me, I’ve tried,” _ as it was carried away in the wind.

\-----

Geralt had expected many things upon entering Vizima’s outer villages. The last time he had spent any considerable amount of time here, he had walked the road towards the city and witnessed the carnage. Bodies of men, women, and children lined the dirt path, mauled down by a beast he couldn’t kill in time.

What he didn’t expect is to have children running to his side, smiles wide on their faces.

Roach falters where she stops, nervous at the small humans crowding beside her. 

“You’re the White Wolf!” a boy exclaims, eyes wide as he bounces on the balls of his feet.

“I am,” Geralt mutters, clutching Roach’s reins tightly as discomfort prickles across his skin.

“Did you really kill a Devil?” A girl presses, shuffling closer with a smile.

Geralt’s brows knit. “What?”

“The bard Dandelion sings of your adventures! About all the beasts you’ve slain!”

“Dandelion?”

The boy nods. “Your bard! The one you travel with. He’s been singing in our town as he waits for passage into the city.”

Geralt frowns, retreating into his thoughts as the children continue to chat animatedly. Has he finally found the lead he’d been searching for? Could Jaskier’s body truly be that close?

“What became of the bard?” Geralt asks, glancing back down to the children.

“He’s performing in the tavern,” the girl says, clasping her hands together. “He says that he’d been separated from you for some time. How wonderful that you’ll be reunited!”

The breeze picks up into a light wind, rustling the back of Geralt’s hair. “What?”

Turning where he is perched on Roach, Geralt frowns down at where Jaskier is standing, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “…I can’t be alive,” the bard whispers before walking towards the gates of the town.

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls, ignoring the confused children as he follows the ghost. By the time he rounds the gates, Jaskier is already entering what he knows to be the inn. Geralt dismounts quickly, tying Roach to a nearby post before jogging inside.

A small crowd is cheering and laughing as music fills the room, raising their tankards to a familiar song.

_ “Toss a coin to your Witcher, _

_ oh valley of plenty—” _

  
A man stands nearest the hearth, smiling brightly as he sings Jaskier’s song. Copper curls bounce against his pale forehead as he paces the front of the room. Freckles pepper his cheeks and his face dimples frown his wide grin. Geralt’s throat tightens upon noticing the familiar carvings of the lute he is playing. Jaskier’s lute, the one gifted to him by Filavandrel all those years ago.

Jaskier stands unmoving at the end of a row of tables as he watches the unknown bard play. His image wavers in the light of the fire, reflecting red in his pale eyes. Geralt's amulet begins to burn as he moves closer to Jaskier, worry bubbling in his stomach.

As the bard finishes and the crowd cheers, coins are tossed his way, which he graciously accepts. “Boy!” A drunkard near him calls, raising his tankard. “Tell us another tale of your adventures with the Witcher!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know where to start,” the bard laughs as he fills his purse. “Do you have a request?”

“Master Dandelion! Tell us of the Sorceress!” a barmaid calls, sitting on the edge of a table with a tray upon her lap. “I do love the romance between her and the Wolf.”

The fire behind the bard flickers violently as a breeze rolls through the room. Geralt sucks in a breath as he reaches Jaskier’s side. “Jaskier… Calm yourself.”

Jaskier pays him no mind as he stares unblinking at the bard as he lifts the lute. “Ah, yes!” he laughs, strumming a few practice chords. “The love story of the ages. Let’s see what I can give you.”

_ The fairer sex, they often call it _

_ But her love’s as unfair as a crook _

_ It steals all my reason _

_ Commits every treason _

_ Of logic, with naught but a look _

Another gust of wind knocks the door of the inn open as Jaskier steps forward towards the bard. A woman screams as Geralt pulls his sword from the harness at his back, following after the ghost.

“That’s mine,” Jaskier whispers, hands clenching into fists. “That is my song.”

“Jaskier, stop,” Geralt pleads, cringing as plates and tankards slam off of tables as Jaskier passes. Villagers jump from their seats, racing towards the other end of the room. The bard continues to play, staring down at his fumbling fingers on the strings.

_ A storm breaking on the horizon _

_ Of longing and heartache and lust _

_ She’s always bad news _

_ It’s always lose, lose _

_ So tell me love, tell me love  _

_ How is that just? _

Another gust of wind causes the bard to stumble back, snuffing out the fire behind him. The lute is flung from his grasp, smashing noisily into the wall behind him. Wood splinters as the neck of the instrument is severed in two.

“You thief,” Jaskier snarls, glaring at the bard who stares through him at the approaching Witcher. “You steal not only my songs but my legacy?! My stories?”

Geralt moves quickly to stand in front of Jaskier, blocking the bard from sight. “You need to calm down,” he urges, heart clenching as Jaskier’s gaze flickers down to the sword in his hand.

“Are you afraid of me, Geralt?” Jaskier whispers, cheeks flushing with anger as he glares up at the Witcher. “Am I monster enough for you to slay?”

“I’m trying to save you,” Geralt mutters, flinching as Jaskier takes a step into his personal space.

Hesitantly, Jaskier reaches up and traces his fingers over the line of Geralt’s jaw. “I’m dead,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes as he watches his own translucent hand. “What is there to save? You’ve already failed.”

Before Geralt can lift his sword, a strong gust of wind slams into his side and launches him over a table. Collecting himself from the ground, Geralt stumbles to his feet in time to watch Jaskier approach the deceitful bard. Fisting his hands the copper curls on the bards head, he drags the man with inhuman strength towards the cooling, red coals beneath the hearth.

“I’ll make sure you’re known for the rest of your days as the thief you are,” Jaskier hisses, shoves the screaming man’s face towards the coals.

“Jaskier!” Geralt snarls, racing forward as he raises his sword.

He’s knocked back once more onto his ass, but this time by a wave of magic. Jaskier is similarly knocked away from the bard, slamming into the table nearest him.

Yennefer of Vengerberg stands in the entrance of the tavern, hands folded into the folds of her cloak. Staring at Geralt, a small smirk pulls on her painted lips as her brows rise in amused greeting. “Villagers screaming out of a tavern of Witchers and wraiths. Why am I not surprised to find that it is you, Geralt?”

Geralt pants as he climbs once more to his feet. “Yen.”

Yennefer’s attention breaks away from Geralt as a chair is launched at her. With the crook of her head, it flies into the wall beside her instead. “It seems you have a ghost problem,” she hums, glancing to where Jaskier seethes angrily near the hearth.

“Damn you witch,” Jaskier snarls, eyes bright with fury. The redhead bard had fled in the chaos, leaving behind only a spilled coinpurse and a broken lute. “You’ve no business here.”

“I need your help,” Geralt pleads gruffly. Reaching beneath his collar, Geralt pulls out his burning red amulet. Yennefer hums in acknowledgment.

“Very well,” she agrees easily, glancing to where Jaskier had been previously standing. The ghost is gone, leaving behind only the ruined remains of the tavern. “It doesn’t seem we have much time to spare. Do you have his body?”

Geralt shakes his head.

Yennefer shrugs as she turns towards the door. “Collect the remains of that lute and follow me, Geralt of Rivia. We have an imposter to question.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you read, please consider following me @phckpence on twitter!
> 
> The lyrics are from a screamo band: achsar - old tavern song. I just liked them a lot, although if you want to imagine Jaskier screaming his head off, go for it! ;-)
> 
> Drop a comment below telling what you think so far! Thank you for reading <3


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